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tv   [untitled]    May 5, 2012 1:00am-1:30am PDT

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silos you might not be here april. if you died right sudden you'd need a will. >> this next is titled no one's real high button. >> beat, beat, beats here the sound of the train on the georgia road the claps of wheels at the gaps of the joints of the rails the beat of the hammer on iron andan vil at the smithing. shaping shoes for mules and horses and the red metal and water is the train's wiftel. the last word returns like watermelons here with summer heat. beat with the hammer. beat when he, a boy, broke to the garden at the county jail at night when the beat men were asleep. there's were the sweetest. the dull that you had before the crack beneath the heart and move on to the next.
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he moveod to woman and settled on one. and busted her with finality. he measured time raising the sweetest watermelons for a time and time served he returned. a man. and he lay on the tracks of the georgia road cradled by the rails. heart stopped. >> all railroad abandoned. between across ties. trees grow. a fairel pig roots below branches. [applause]. >> poem is about a ham. >> uncle john. that was the year grand daddy thomas died. left the family worse than broke. uncle john stole a ham from the meat market. he was 17. lost his taste for it locked up
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14 years. ham, cured and earth bred sliced with the fat hanging on. yellow sunshine on a white plate. the ham bone cuts crosswise. a dark eye all in the skillet making aggressive for grits. lost his taste for all things salt much the ocean he has not seen. woman and man. he don't ever want to see no more ham on his plate. hates pigs. hard for him. time off for good behavior. they didn't hold him to the last 6. he is a hog farmer. only eats beef and chicken and turkey. fish, turtle and rabbit. squirrel, possum and coon and seasons greens with smoked ox tails. can't raise white folks for
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slaughter. [applause] >> for those of you who have not heard this in person a big beautiful surprises, she speaks at tremendous authority of feeling. and very uniquely agile intelligence. >> we are the memory of that place without measure. that filled all space that never was and ever will be. that place existing as the perfect note yet making no sound. holding all colors inside a light that was nothing but darkness. we are the memory of a breath that could not be but was. a breath that's well to bubble which bursts and collapsed. me are the memory gestated in day that lasted eons as the
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universe birthed heat, light, rock, ice, mineral, song, us. we are the impossible made flesh creating infinnate possibilities of hope or endless kazisms of despair inside the prayers which we have become. [applause]. this is called the fifth dying i deal with the wars away but the wars here. >> anny was one of many girls my son mentioned in passing and grew up when she became the fifth intent days where he more than once broken bread or tossed a joke or waves down or waived past. she, the fifth, in 10 days who's
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blood splat erred the walls and dripped down the walk. this one in front of her home celebrating turning 23, a shining star her brother said. my heart, her father moneyed, a friend my opened to her sister known since the girl was 12 and he 11. and now each day i watch my son suck in his tears and stiffen from the pain that thickens as the pile of his dead grows beneath his heart. deep inside his bones ache. and will not let him sleep lest those faces fill his dreams. i try to massage love into his neck and shoulder as we talk anguish from his locked muscles
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we don't speak of airny his pretend wife and confident. he reminds me it is not summer i should be real it can only get worse. he dresses in white and leaves my home as the key turns the bolt, i smell the mossy scent of morning seep from under the designer purfume he left in his wake. [applause] >> this is, i have several poems in various solder's voices. some that i made up and some that exist this is for jessica lynch, war memories. i have forgotten myself. who i was, i cannot now know who i have become is a stranger i
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have forgotten myself there are other things to lose in battle eyes and guts, other sacrifices before life. vilost myself. i am not who i was before this war, i am not she who no longer dares to be my mother is so happy with this worn body returned home. we pretend that i am as whole as i look. but at night when i stair through the dark at the hidden image in the mirror i cannot lie to the stranger i see. i have forgotten everything. except my affection for children, my service to country and my insatiable fear. [applause]
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>> sizing up the cost of war. >> what is left but the shoes. shoes scuffed and torn, no longer having feet to carry them, shoes empty now. work boots bearing mud from the last field he had plowed with his father. empty now. red sneakers with white stripes brought back fwr america by her oldest son given to her youngest, both of them immediately rung outside kicking the soccer ball back and forth the older rustling the youngster's head after a goal, empty now. heavy and white, they were the first pair of shoes she ever
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walked in. the first she had learned to untie so that she could riggel out and once again feel the sand cyst between her toes, empty now. his work boots were resoled many times next season he would have bout a new pair or perhaps the season after that. but these old ones darkened from the oil had become supple and familiar. they knew his feet took his ankles and kept them strong. empty now. she had smiled when he offered her the embossed letter pumps made for her in italy from the pattern he carefully traced around her narrow feet long toes tapered in perfect symmetry.
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empty now. regulation boots, smoothed by the sand salt crystal seeming to be so much of the desert they had walked. the inside soles showing imprints of thick, heavy feet. empty now. and these, handmade slippers that were the only a grand mother silk floured kiss that never touched the ground because as her father's favorite she was still carried every where. empty now. the red heals that she saved for the brown loafers passed down the sandals strapd and tied all empty now. the flesh gone. the blood gone. the legs gone. all gone. [applause]
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>> everyday another infantary man choses not to fire his gun. everyday a solder refuses to pick up his weapon. evidence another matisha member boundaried post. everyday another fighter deserts instead of returning to the battlefield. everyday another youth conscious objects to the very idea of war. everyday another ordinary person offers love instead of apathy, hope instead of despair, the cause of peace grows stronger. it is already begun. it's long trek into our hearts. tell take many more years to cover our streets, a host of
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decades to feel our roads, our access, our country side but itit will come like the clearest of mornings after the harshest storms like the soft soothing rain after the years of drought, it will come. hundreds of millions of people will stop feeding the beast of war. will stop crafting armor and boiling machines with their children's blood sacrificed. thousands upon thousands of solders will turn away from their leaders doomsday aspirations. refusing the burden of being a destroyer of homes. rejecting the obligation of being the killer of brothers, spurning the mantel of murderer
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of children, decimator of families, poisoner of the earth. one day it will happen. on this tiny planet, flushed with blues weeping in reds opening green and fresh. tell be quiet on this day. so quiet it will pass almost unnoticed. because there will yet be hunger and floods and fire. there will yet be storms and despair and disease. there will yet be struggles and madness. but when that morning come thousands upon thousands will get up, millions inside millions will stretch out and face the challenges of the moment with our tongues wrapped around the idea of peace. feel it's weight, hear it's
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song, remember in vent, discover, recreate it's rhythms as we begin to walk the long trail of healing. sew it to grow on it be it to see it, peace. sew it to grow it, be it to see it, peace. [applause]. >> flying inside the evening sky. i don't know the name of the blues that shadow our past. one is sweet and light a cool meringue. another sharp but still. a third thick presses down upon the rest. colbolt. a blue that hums deeply a harmony of ferm ment denying
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stars shining inside the cosmos. forever blue where life dies and is reborn. an eternal blue that exists above the storm. a blue that doesn't suffer discord that would smile if it had a mouth. embrace if it was armed. comfort if it grew heart. instead it arcs a concert of blues hovering over the earth in an endless ocean of impossible quiet. thick with blue beyond blue. a blue that disappears when clutched in the fist, a blue invisible and solid. thank you very much. [applause] >> please, welcome camill. >> that was a great reading and you changed up my play list.
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>> start with a poem i read after i learned that the rate of valum prescriptions in baghdad sky rocketed after the u.s. entry into that space. the title of the poem and it is the words the probably roost which is bitter. biting, cutting, sharp. bitan. once, she was a fearest dark girl who's tongue skipped top of meeting. teeth, teeth top of mouth like double dutch with the word that ment her thoughts cutting circles through the day. no chance she'd be the one to trip and break rhythm.
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then she could sit all day on her porch memorizing the trees. she could be still. the birds, winged through leaves like they didn't know anyone could hurt them. once she believed steam curled off asphalt when summer rains stopped with a prophecy. she believed this looked the way she would feel after touching a man. her body clean. and black. and right. something beautiful and painless rising up. i was talking with a friend about that idea of leaving places. and leaving places behind the
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title of this poem is stolen directly from this conversation in which he said there is a particular state that he would never go back to. >> that's a state i will never go back to. for doug. >> once i got over the problem of not knowing how i couldn't go back to not curbing my tires. it took a while to get past forgetting to register street cleaning hours and love, love was my handicap. though i had no permits to hang from my rear view so i collected 7 or 10 slips i had every intension to pay off except i skipped town for the summer. and returned to find the guy staying in my apartment toss them. i'll admit i was relieved not to face these expensive reminders of the girl i have been how
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stupid i was about life in the city. and as i finished school, was moving south for good this time. and as i lived then in a state of great anticipation. the potential of a record never acrossed my mind. but now, on account of those parking tickets i can't go back there with a car. though everyone who loves me know i love that tiny window each october in the south nub of the state you can't reach without driving. i missed it once and waited a whole year regretting the lost chance to track the lyndon leaves tiny migration. the next fall, refusing to endure that state of desolation again i asked everyone who loved me to please meet me just south of the border. we ordered green mussels and
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popcorn shrimp. the shrimp beat the mussels to the table. i drank for pleasure but since i left that state i hadn't found anything delicious so iate all the mussels. crouched, later in that state betrayal that come from learning some green things are not good. considering the law averages that a body in motion stays in motion unless faced with an equal or opposite force, peer pressure, skitology the projected near devastation of world forest should population the motdz of toilet paper consumption. germs vary. my role in the pressing the mean agent of common human hygiene i knew i never wanted to be near
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that state again. with extradition i was hardly away at all. when i first rolled over my parents were pleased and i left the state of never having rolled before. ditto, something on all fours to crawling. and once i could walk we all knew i was never going back. i just pulled myself up and started moving. i grabbed at everything i could reach until i learned better i put my tongue on anything. once iate papaya straight from the tree and i mourned the abject state of created fruit i living in that state in my ignorance thought i loved. i denounce such love. i married a local. i taught myself how to keep his
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garden. i swear i'm staying away from that state for good. i heard this quote a while ago and i just loved it ever since. >> just before she died, gert trued stein was able to ask, what is the answer? she got no response. her last words were, in that case what is the question? it is not who is it, are we there yet, is anybody home. not, how much for the lemon, not, how much for the ivory, leopard, the peach. not, when are we leaving. not, how will we leave. not, do you know who she came with? how many clowns will hit in the
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car. the head of a pin? no one cares how many angels. no one cares what you think of the smart bomb corruption, the mobs. your opinion on deregulation, no one's concerned much the question is not who done it the question is not what's for dinner, what's your beverage, where's the beef? the question is not who is your daddy? is not, which way will the wind blow? is not, where's the car. you wash behind your ears; right . question is not did you turn off the oven or turn off the alarm what's that got to do with the price of tea in china. did you bite it. what's gotten into you no one's asking if you know where your children are. no one's asking if you can locate the nearest exits. in some cases they may be behind
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you. no one cares whether or not you are being followed. don't ask if it makes you look fat. the question is not, do you remember the time. do you remember the time? not, do you know the extension of the person you were calling. not, premium or regular. not paper, not plastic credit or deb debit. the question is not what can you do for your country. not now. not later. not okay? the question is not, what your country can do for you. the question is not, who will save us. how are you getting by? [applause] >> i'll end with a love poem.
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>> my lover. who lives far. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers supper. in a bowl made of his breath. the stew has boiled and i wonder at the cat born from it's steam. the cat is in the bedroom now. muling. the cat is indecent and i whom trying to be tidy, i whom trying to do things the purpose way, i who am sick from the shedding. i, am undone. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers pastry in a basket spun from his vision. it is closely woven. the kind of container some women
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collect. i have seen these in many colors but the basket he brings is simple. only black. only nude. the basket he brings is full of sweet burdens and i eat even the crumbs. as am i have not dined for days. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers tea made from the liquid he's crying. i do not want my lover crying and i am sorry i ever asked for tea. my lover, who lives far away opens the door to my room pretending he never cried. he offers tea and cold cakes. the tea is delicious. spiced like the start of our
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courtship. honeyed and warm. i drink every bit of the tea and put aside the cakes. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room like a man loving his strength. the lock i replaced this morning will not keep him away. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and brings me nothing. perhaps he has noticed how fat i have grown indulged. perhaps he is poor and sick as emptying his store. it is no matter to me any longer he has filled me already so full. my lover who is far away opens the door to my room and tells me he is tired.
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i do not ask what he's tired from for my lover far away has already disappeared. the blankets are big with his body. the cat, under the covers because it is cold out and she is not stupid. muse. >> thank you. [applause]. >> please welcome mr. douglas kaerny. [applause] >> how many know the song living in the city by stevie wonder. that great skit at end where stevie plays all the voices and gets arrested. new york city, skyscrapers and everything. this is a poem that reimagines that gentlemen exists the bus in that skit as john henry. this is a section of it.
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skyscrapers and everything. j hammer henry mallet [inaudible] could barely fit hammer poking out like natural man's skyscraper to the concrete for deep machine sleep abouts income. don't go john henry traffic man, don't go across that street. the flood song poems were poems written in reaction to katrina. how can i enter that space of writing poems about that. i'm not from there and don't have family there. who benefits from that tragedy? who benefits from that disregard for humanity and the thought animals would benefit from that. this first